


Saving Her Grace

by NoNessa (sunmyano)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Drama, Historical References, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Medicine, Mystery, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-09-27 19:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10040777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunmyano/pseuds/NoNessa
Summary: A close friend of the Musketeers requires a physician. When Doctor Lemay takes the case he finds that nothing is as he expects.





	1. Sopor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mordaunt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mordaunt/gifts).



> This is a standalone sequel to my story "A Lady of Cathay". It takes place around mid-series 2 and centres around Lemay. But, of course, our lovely boys (mainly Aramis and Porthos) willalso play a big part. Aside from this, I will be geeking out a bit about Renaissance medicine here and there. You have been warned! ;) ;)
> 
> Disclaimer: The Musketeers and all its rights are owned by the BBC. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> Copyright Note: Désirée de Bourbon is my own original character and may not be used without my prior permission.

I. Sopor

 

 

Sopor ( _noun)  
_ An unnaturally deep sleep.

 

 

The silence was oppressive. It had surrounded him, ever since leaving the scene at the Rue Saint-Honoré. And the quiet lingered, like a dark, perpetual raincloud even the fastest run could not shake off.

Now, as he rushed across the palace yard, Athos perceived nothing but the sound of his boots against the gravel, and the cold wetness of the crisp autumn air against his skin.

The Musketeer felt as though he had made this journey alone, accompanied only by a ghost. Yet he had not. Wistfully, he gazed at the pallid young woman he cradled in his arms.

She was too heavy to be a mere apparition. Yet her skin had the ghastly whiteness of one. Unable to support herself, she lay slumped in his arms. Her legs dangled in midair, like those of a marionette. He hoped that she looked worse than she actually was. In the past, she had shown an eerie talent for it.

"Do you still think she is only a little worse for wear?" Porthos inquired. He was asking the exact same question that kept floating around Athos's mind, unanswered.

"We will have to see," he replied quietly. It would be a great miracle if their young lady friend had only taken a minor scratch in her accident.

Suddenly concerned, Athos touched her cheek. His hand came back warm, too warm. She required care, urgently. He quickened his pace even more. At a near run, he climbed the broad stone stairs and approached the palatial building ahead. All this time, Porthos stayed close, running with him.

Pushing past the servant who admitted them, Athos stepped into the ample entrance hall. Briefly he held on, but not to admire the finery of the marble tiles, silk hangings or golden chandeliers all around him.

"You are home," he told his friend in a low murmur. But the young lady took his words as impassively as everything else he had said before. She remained entirely insensible; deaf to the world around her.

Even though her body was a dead weight, it shifted uneasily in his hold. It felt as though its  motions travelled through his arms, straight into his own body. He had to lay her down, fast. Tightening his grip, Athos moved on. He knew where to go. Two steps at a time, he ran up the polished marble staircase that lead to her bedchamber.

Once he had reached the top floor, he perceived the tread of a maid upon his heels. Without a single question, she slunk past and opened the double doors to her mistress's quarters. He did not miss the horrified look she gave the huddled bundle in his arms.

Quickly Athos approached the large fourposter bed in the center of the spacious room. He laid her down. Very carefully he unwrapped her from his green cloak, never glancing up from her perfectly motionless form. He tossed the heavy leather cloak over his left shoulder, listening. Without turning he knew that Porthos and him were no longer alone with her. Before he could identify the new arrival, Athos found himself spoken to:

"Monsieur, does my niece require a physician?" A soft female voice asked. Great concern made her words sound tremulous. It was Princess Charlotte.

"Your highness," Athos turned and sketched a quick bow. The princess looked startled. Her large blue eyes gazed back at him from a pale round face full of trepidation and her dark golden curls were in disarray. Yet he doubted that she had cried. "The matter is already in hand."

Aramis had gone to the Louvre to fetch Lemay. They should be arriving soon. Until then, Athos was reluctant to leave his friend. Yet protocol dictated otherwise: Musketeers had no business in the bedroom of a young, unmarried lady from the royal family. But it did not mean they would just give her up to her family's care.

He glanced at Porthos. Consternation was consuming his comrade. The seemingly placid look on his face did not fool Athos. All he needed to see was the deep sadness in Porthos's eyes and the way they remained fixed on their unconscious friend. Once, she had meant the world to him. And now, these ancient affections left him heartbroken.

Before Porthos noticed his scrutiny, Athos turned back to the princess. "If it would be agreeable with your highness, I would like my comrade to remain with Mademoiselle. As long as the incidents at the royal procession are still under investigation, her safety is our primary concern." Athos stopped himself abruptly. He was fabricating a tale, telling half truths. They knew what had happened at the procession. She had only been an innocent bystander. Still he found no better excuse to leave Porthos with her. "I am aware Monseigneur le Prince might not agree to..."

Princess Charlotte held up her hand, groaning quietly. She had heard enough. "My husband is not here, Monsieur." Her sour expression told Athos all he needed to know about the dismal state of their marriage. "And I would welcome it if you stayed with my niece, for however long she needs you. As you well know, Désirée does not have many close friends. And I daresay, you are the closest thing to friends she has ever had."

She was right. Although her knowledge of Désirée's past relations with the Musketeers astonished him. But Athos had no time to waste on this notion. He had work to do. "Thank you, Madame."

His hand touched Porthos's arm, giving him a gentle push towards the bed. "I will leave this to you and Aramis", he told him in a low voice, "D'Artagnan and I are expected in Rouen by nightfall. We shall return to Paris tomorrow. If she misbehaves, let her know I will lecture her when I get back."

Porthos snorted. For an instant, his eyes lit up. "I will, if she wakes up until then. If not you might have to yell at her not to die on us", he whispered back.

"She won't die, Porthos." Athos sighed. Désirée had had countless opportunities to die in the past. He did not believe that she would jump at this one.

Albeit Porthos looked doubtful. "You cannot know that..." he muttered.

"If she ever finds out you said that, she will punch you in the groin," Athos quipped. With one final slap on his comrade's broad back, he pulled away from the glum spectacle.

Outside the window the red skies announced the afternoon drawing to a close. He hated to leave but duty never ended. It was a soldier's lot. There was nothing he could do here. And, on a horrid day such as this he could not allow to drown in this crippling sentiment of powerlessness. And Désirée could not allow herself to die now. It was her duty to stay alive, for her family, and for them. She knew that. And she would never let him down.

Hopefully...

 


	2. Exitus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the day of the accident, both D'Artagnan and Lemay find that death is no rare sight in Paris.

II. Exitus

Exitus ( _noun)  
_ Death. A person's departure from life.

 

Blue lips and cold, ghastly white skin. There was only one diagnosis and I dreaded to voice it. I leaned over my patient's unmoving body, scrambling to listen for a breath, or a heartbeat. I found neither. For a moment, I wanted to grab a mirror, just to be sure I had not missed the soundless passage of air into the lungs. But it made absolutely no sense. My patient was beyond help.

"He is dead." I said it, into the mortified faces of the Vicomte's young wife and her two teenage daughters. Their father had died before my arrival; perhaps even before the family had sent for me.

Any moment now they would begin to weep tears full of disbelief. I understood. Most people found it hard to face death. Over the years, I had shed this fearfulness. I could not show it in front of my patients. Death was a part of life. The fear of it would harm those in my care, those who faithfully laid their wellbeing into my hands.

"Doctor, forgive us for troubling you to come," the Vicomte's newly created widow offered me a saddened look of apology. "Only to tell us that..." Now she cried. The realisation of what she was about to say made the tears burst from her eyes like waterfalls.

"It has been no trouble at all, Madame." I offered her my handkerchief. She could keep it. I had long learned to stockpile them for exactly these sad occasions. "My condolences."

"Thank you," she sniffed. "We shall not take any more of your time."

"Madame," I conjured up a brief smile of compassion. Then I bowed to the grieving family and took my leave.

Once outside I tucked my medical chest under my arm. Hurriedly I beat my retreat to the nearby Louvre. On the way across the sandy thoroughfare that took me back to the palace, I heard the shrill noises of a commotion. But I paid it no heed. I knew about the royal procession taking place for All Saints' Day. It was probably only the masses cheering for their sovereign. I would have loved to attend as well, yet my noble patients had decided that I was not allowed to take a day off.

Ever since the break of dawn I had been up, rushing from one case to the next. I had started the day with a pregnant lady whose firstborn had required turning. It was a miracle she had not thrashed me in her great agony. And now I had testified a man's death.  No matter how I looked at it, my day was not improving.

When I finally re-entered my quarters, I dumped my kit on the table with an unusual lack of care. For a long moment, I closed my eyes. With a tinge of desperation, I prayed for providence to grant me a moment's rest at last. Even though it was not even noon, yet, I was beginning to feel a little bit tired. It was unusual for me.

Yet, again, there was no peace to be had. Just when I had readied my equipment for the next call, a brisk knock on the door gave me a start. Before I could even respond, the doors sprang open. This had to be urgent...And, no doubt, it was. The intruder was none other than Madame Bonacieux. From the way she was shaking and the bright red flush of her cheeks, I gathered that she had been running. In addition to that, the horrified look on her face made me fear for the worst. Was something amiss with the queen?

"What is it?" I inquired. My hands already travelled towards my case.

"There has been an accident," she brought out, still panting. "You better hurry. Aramis is waiting downstairs; he will escort you."

Confused for a split second, I frowned at her. In all her upheaval, she had completely forgotten to reveal the victim's identity. "Is it one of the Musketeers?" I asked with growing bewilderment.

"No", Constance replied. "It is Mademoiselle de Bourbon. She fell off her horse and has been unconscious ever since."

Slowly, the situation began to make more sense. But I remained mildly confused: At court, there were several ladies by this name. Having met some of them, I was disinclined to be unpleasantly surprised. "Which Mademoiselle de Bourbon?"

Constance gave me a blank stare. She had to be perturbed. Otherwise she would have answered me without much hesitation. "The Marquise d'Isles. She does not come to court very often."

Indeed I had never heard of her. And I took no time to search my memory for any mentions of her name. I would meet the lady in question soon enough. Or so I hoped.  If the story held true, she might have gotten unlucky. Sparing no more than a curt nod, I grabbed my kit and rushed downstairs to meet my escort. Riding accidents could be a messy business. There was not a single second to lose.  


**

D'Artagnan awaited Athos not far from where the accident had happened. He held his horses by the bridle. Slowly he walked up and down the deserted street. Around him, not much reminded of the festive procession and its abrupt end, except for the lacking people. They had all fled.

Yet there had never been a threat for them. Only the king had ever been in danger. He and the royal family were safe now. They had made sure of that. And the Red Guard had allegedly caught the lunatic who had fired the shots at Louis's carriage. Luckily the suspect had been a terrible shot, missing by at least a yard, twice.

Though this did not help Désirée. One of the unlucky bullets had zipped past her horse's head. And the poor beast had panicked. She was a good rider and had stayed on top for a long, hopeful moment. But her mare's terror had run too deep. His friend had never stood a chance.

Suddenly, a quiet whimper grabbed D'Artagnan's full attention. It was high-pitched and animal-like. In a crowded street, he would have never heard it. But he was the only one here. Well, not anymore. Carefully he stepped forward, towards the whining sound. He peered around the corner ahead of him. There he saw a small, brown and white dog, pitifully stretched out on the ground. That had to be it. The little creature was in bad pain.

D'Artagnan wondered if he should shoot it, to end its misery. On the farm, they would do it, if a wolf had fatally wounded a sheep dog. But this was Paris, not Gascony. And the dog was not his. Someone might be looking for it. Once more, he looked around the corner. Now he saw that the dog was already dead. A dark puddle of blood blackened the earth beneath its shaggy, spotted pelt. Yet still, the whimper had not stopped. And now he glimpsed its source: it was the cry of a child.

At the dog's side crouched a little girl. She was no older than eight. Her simple linen dress was stained and torn. So far, she had not noticed him, for her face was buried in the dog's pelt.

"Hello," D'Artagnan said.

Startled, the girl spun around. When she saw his uniform and weapons, she flung her dirt-stained hands into the air. "Please, Monsieur, don't hurt me!"  
  
"Calm down, little one. I only want to say hello." D'Artagnan stopped to tether the horses to a post. Then he moved forward, spreading his own hands as a wordless token of peace. "I am D'Artagnan."

"Désirée." She introduced herself.

Dumbfounded, D'Artagnan stopped in his tracks. This had to be a sick joke. Or had Désirée died and he had just met an incarnation of her ghost? Before any further nonsense like this could trouble him, he crouched down beside the child.

"Nice to meet you, Désirée." He took her hand. "Is this your dog?"

"It was." She started sobbing again. "But he was killed... They murdered my poor César!"

"Murdered?" D'Artagnan wiped a tear off her dirty cheek. Beneath the black patina, her skin was the colour of light caramel.

Young Désirée shuddered. "A horse kicked him, at the procession."

D'Artagnan cringed. What if this death was all his fault? "A big, ivory-coloured horse?" He asked in a half murmur, dreading the answer.

The girl nodded. "The one that tossed the lady..."

"I am so very sorry," D'Artagnan stroked her lifeless dog. After Désirée's fall, he had rushed to catch her mare. The horse had been livid, bucking and kicking in blind, mad fear. Eventually he had ridden up and caught it by the reins, seconds before bolting into a throng of onlookers. The people had been unharmed. But this dog had lost its life. When Désirée had been on the floor, knocked senseless by the impact, the horse had nearly kicked her as well. If it had, she would have shared César's gruesome predicament.

"Are you crying, Monsieur?" The little one beheld him with wide eyes.

"I..." D'Artagnan wiped the handful of tears from the corner of his eye. "The lady is my friend."

"Oh no! Has she died, too?" Now she looked as guilty as he felt.

"The last time I saw her, she was still alive." It had been when Athos and Porthos had rushed her home. Since there had been no other way, they had chosen to ride, Désirée's mare in tow. Before his mind's eye, he still saw the animal quiver in shock as they cantered away. "She is also called Désirée," he added wistfully.

The Désirée by his side took the information with a gleam of surprise in her eye. "Is she a princess?" She inquired eagerly.

"Well," Despite all his glumness, D'Artagnan had to grin. His friend would have scowled at the question in a most hilarious way. "There are princesses in her family, but you cannot accuse her of being one. She hates nothing more."

"She sounds funny," little Désirée shrugged. When her comment made D'Artagnan's face cloud over with fresh sadness, she added. "I will say a prayer for her."

Gratefully, D'Artagnan pressed her grubby little hand. "Thank you. She would like that."

And she needed it too, desperately. He feared that Désirée might not be there anymore upon their return from Rouen. But D'Artagnan refused to have this thought. His friend would make it. She always did.

"Shall I tell her about César when she is feeling better?" he inquired, almost jovially now. "Was he a good dog?"

"The best," young Désirée nodded fervently.

"Then she will gladly pray for him, too." Again, D'Artagnan rested a hand on the dog's cold, lifeless body. He was unsure whether dogs had souls. He had to ask Désirée. Surely, she would be able to tell him. That was, if she ever woke up again.


	3. Amnesia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lemay meets his new patient and finds that she poses a challenge, in many peculiar ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, it has happened. Lemay meets Désirée. The game is on! ;)  
> There is some medical action in this chapter, but nothing too disturbing.

III. Amnesia

Amnesia ( _noun)  
_ Loss of memory. Forgetfulness.

 

"Did you rescue her?" I asked as I rushed up the stairs alongside Aramis.  
  
"Yes and no", he replied with a mild frown. On our hasty ride to the Hôtel de Condé, on the far side of the Seine, he had not been very communicative. I had taken his quiet brooding for concern, and seemed right about it. "She practically fell at our feet. It was her luck, for we could take her here right away."  
  
It had been a reasonable decision. I only hoped that moving the lady had not worsened her injuries. And this was not the only consideration on my mind: It baffled me how we had simply walked into this palace, unhindered. We had come in through a back entrance. Many servants had passed us on our way but none had challenged us. There was only one conclusion about it for me.  
  
"I take it that you are well acquainted with Mademoiselle?" I asked, hoping he would not mind the nosy question.  
  
"Our relationship is hard to explain in brief, but you could say so," Aramis replied as he ushered me down one of the wide corridors on the palace's second floor. Left and right of us, lavishly carved white doors with gilt handles lead to the family's living quarters. At once, Aramis uttered a peculiar afterthought. "That being said, I should warn you."  
  
"Warn me, what about?" Ever since we had arrived here, I did not seem to lose my frown. Apparently, my patient was of some special disposition. And I got the feeling that it might be a cause for worry.  
  
Aramis was glancing at me rather sternly now. "Mademoiselle has quite the temper; especially when she is unwell. So, by all means, tread carefully. Things will not go well if you upset her."  
  
"Then I shall try not to", I retorted, wondering just how I could possibly upset her. Usually, my bedside manners provoked no complaints. Aramis's warning, however, had felt too sincere to be cast aside so lightly.  
  
At least now that he had my assurance, the Musketeer seemed content. With a brief, grateful nod he led on into Mademoiselle de Bourbon's bedroom. The sight that awaited us when we stepped into the large, elegantly furnished apartment was unlike anything I had foreseen. Compared to the rather gruesome scenes I had pictured in my mind, the reality looked almost perfectly serene.  
  
From afar I saw Mademoiselle lying prone and motionless on a sizeable fourposter bed, wearing nothing but an embroidered white smock. A handful of maidservants kept bustling back and forth, clearing away clothes and washing dirt off her skin. There was a rushed air about their ministrations, yet nobody appeared to be panicked or afraid.  
  
The only thing that struck me as unusual, was Porthos's presence in the room. Of course, the other Musketeer had every reason to stay, making sure that the lady was safe and well looked after. Yet he hovered very close to her, even holding her hand. Aside from me, nobody appeared to take any particular notice of it. If she allowed him to do the same thing when she was conscious, her relationship with the king's soldiers certainly was a special one.  
  
While I handed my case to a servant and moved closer towards my patient, Aramis addressed his comrade. "Any changes?"  
  
"None whatsoever", Porthos retorted with a crestfallen sigh. "She has been like this for half an hour now, hardly stirring at all."  
  
This piece of information alerted me. Quickening my pace, I walked up to her bedside. The second I laid eyes on her face, I felt my heart skip a beat: Mademoiselle de Bourbon was still very young and of outlandish beauty: Her milk-white skin stood in stark contrast to the thick shock of silky black hair that fell a long way over her shoulders until it nearly grazed her elbows. When she breathed, her full, peach-coloured lips parted ever so slightly while her chest rose and fell almost unnoticeably. Beneath her natural pallor there was a hint of rosiness flushing her cheeks. In anyone else, I might have taken it for natural colouring. Out of an inkling, however, I touched her forehead. My hand came away hot. She had a fever.  
  
And it was not the only problem. The flat motions of her chest were slow and laboured. Clearly, my patient was struggling to breathe. I turned my ear towards her chest, to listen to her respiration. A distinct rattle told me that something was obstructing her airways. Most likely, it was a broken rib, or worse, a contusion of the lungs.  
  
Before finding out, though, it was my priority to get more air to enter her body. Hopefully, that would wake her up. That was unlikely to happen as long as she lay flat on her back. At first, I considered moving her onto her side. But for that I had to know more about her injuries. But assessing them would take too long. So I chose a different approach.  
  
"We need to sit her up, to ease her breathing", I stated into the general direction of the two Musketeers. I took off my doublet and slipped my hands under Mademoiselle's shoulders.  
  
With a nod, Aramis took off his own coat and approached her other side. Slowly, he wrapped an arm around her upper body, cradling it against his side with great care. "Better let me take her. You do not want to get too close when she comes to." He seemed to have some experience with these situations. I could only guess how he had gained it, since now was no good time to ask.  
  
So I left him to prop her up against a pile of pillows and turned towards a servant who had just approached me. She was short, slender and rather pretty with long russet curls and freckles sprinkling her round cheeks. She also looked much younger than her mistress, although her resolute demeanour compensated for the lack in years. After a quick curtsey, she addressed me. "Monsieur, I am Evangeline, Mademoiselle de Bourbon's chamber maid. If you require anything, please let me know."  
  
"Thank you", I answered. "There is nothing I require at present. But tell me, has your mistress been well before the accident?"  
  
"I believe so, Monsieur", she replied, biting her lip. Perhaps she felt foolish for not knowing any better. "Although I think Mademoiselle did not take her breakfast this morning. So, perhaps she was distracted. If I may say so, this is very much unlike her. Usually my mistress is a very able rider and would not lose control in such a way..."  
  
I saw in her eyes that these events still left Evangeline incredulous. For some reason, I wanted to rub her back and reassure her, although this would be anything but proper. So I left it. "I believe you," I said, smiling briefly. "Rest assured that I will do for her whatever I can."  
  
Suddenly I picked up movement from the corner of my eye. A powerful shudder had just shaken my patient. "Excuse me", I muttered. When I turned to give Mademoiselle de Bourbon my full attention, another quiver gripped her. Instinctively I reached out to steady her trembling body. It was a mistake.  
  
This very second, the young woman woke with a loud gasp. Like claws, her fingernails dug into my wrist, locking it in an iron grip. In an onrush of panic and confusion, she spun around to stare at me. Her brown eyes were  wide with shock. There was a strange amber fire burning in them, clouded by disorientation. I doubted that she saw me at all. Gingerly, I attempted to free my arm. But her fingers were incredibly strong for a noble lady; there was no escape. It was my luck that Aramis took over almost at once.  
  
"Désirée," he said very quietly, trying to get her attention. When nothing happened, he ventured to touch her cheek, trying to address her again. "Désirée, it is me, Aramis."  
  
This time, she reacted. Very slowly, she turned to gaze at him. In the surprise of hearing a familiar voice, her grasp of my wrist loosened enough for me to pull free. Her hold had been so firm that it had left some deep red crenelations, snaking around my forearm. Aramis's warning about Mademoiselle's fierceness had been no exaggeration.  
  
When I looked back up, the Musketeer had sat down on the bed, gently pulling both her hands into his lap. Very calmly, he talked to her and, by now, she was responding. While he spoke French, though, she did not. I listened for a moment, finding that it was ancient Greek.  
To my great astonishment, it was coherent, picking up whatever the Musketeer said to her. Finding someone so fluent in Greek outside the circles of clerics and philosophers was rare, especially if this person was a young woman. Even I could only understand the language and, seemingly, so could Aramis:  
  
"You fell off your horse", he told her. "And no, I did not make that up."  
  
The revelation provoked a helpless sigh. Mademoiselle did not appear to remember her accident. After a fall such as hers, it was not uncommon for the memory to fail, at least temporarily.  
  
Obviously concerned that she might become upset, Aramis tried to distract her. "And look, Porthos is here, too. Perhaps, for his sake, you could speak French now."  
  
"Yes... I am sorry," Mademoiselle de Bourbon replied quietly, struggling with the words. "I just could not..."  
  
"It is all right," gently, Aramis ran a hand through her sleek black hair.  
  
Almost reflexively, the young woman leaned closer to embrace him. Yet, before she got to seek comfort in his arms, she spotted me. At once, she disentangled herself, looking as though I had caught her in an unseemly act. For an instant, her gaze travelled back towards the Musketeers, mutely inquiring about my presence. When Porthos tried to explain, however, she silenced him with a wave of her hand. That moment, her undivided attention came to rest on me.  
  
"Who are you?" she questioned in a low,tense voice. Her fiery eyes studied me intently, to the point of sending a chill down my spine. Certainly, she expected a very good reason for my visit to her bedchamber.  
  
"I am Doctor Lemay, your grace, the new court physician," I said, finding it hard not to wince under her scrutiny. "The Musketeers sent for me because they were very concerned about your well-being."  
  
Mademoiselle de Bourbon sighed. "Obviously..." she murmured, more to herself, while she ran a palm over the sheets. "Your French is funny, Monsieur," she then added more loudly.  
  
"I am Swiss, your grace", I explained, trying not to think too hard why she would make such a comment when her own French was laced with a strange mixture of accents. I wondered where she had grown up; it was probably not Paris, either.  
  
"Oh, poor you", she retorted. Had it not been for her condition, I would have felt insulted now. But so, I simply overlooked the slight and let her continue. "Would you do me a favour?"  
  
By the way she still frowned at me, I was certain she was about to send me away. "That would depend on what your grace requires..." I ventured, showing her that I was not easily intimidated.  
  
"Nothing much," she retorted with the failed attempt at a half-smile. "Just that you stop calling me 'your grace'. Mademoiselle will do. I respond to 'your grace' about as well as my uncle, only that he insists on 'your highness' instead."  
  
Her tone suggested that she found this notion silly. Being used to nobility insisting strongly on their titles, her attitude surprised me. But I wanted to get along with my patient. Thus it seemed wiser to humour her wishes. "Very well, your ... Mademoiselle. If it is agreeable, I would like to examine you. We should ascertain that your accident has not caused any more serious injuries."  
  
"Do what you cannot leave", she consented grudgingly after a brief pause.  
  
With a nod, I reached for her wrist to feel her pulse. I found it hard to curb my urge to have a closer look at her head first. Even though she seemed in control of her wits now, some of her reactions pointed strongly towards a bad concussion. Yet I was certain that my initiative would offend the lady. It was safer to start small.  
  
So I concentrated on her heartbeat, finding it slower and calmer than I would expect in someone who had recently woken from unconsciousness. Her behaviour, on the other hand, appeared perturbed. Right now, she had turned towards the Musketeers, addressing them in a hushed but upset tone. "So I seriously fell off my horse?"  
  
"You did indeed," Aramis replied with a trace of exasperation. He obviously disliked seeing her so worked up.  
  
"Goodness," Mademoiselle groaned. "Athos will be cross when he finds out."  
  
Her seemingly unconnected remark made Porthos snort quietly. "He already knows. And it is not as though you were riding heedlessly again this time."  
  
"Again?" she nearly snapped now, although quietly. "I do not recall ever doing that."  
  
At this point, Aramis had heard enough. "Désirée, please, now is not a good time to discuss this. How about you stop talking for a little while and let Doctor Lemay do his work?"  
  
He had a point, yet a soldier had no place telling a noblewoman what to do, no matter how close they were to each other. I winced at the thought of Mademoiselle's reaction. But it consisted of nothing but offended silence. She was looking my way again, mutely scowling to herself.  
  
Pretending to overlook her mood, I examined her head and neck, searching for injuries. Aside from a few bumps and bruises though, there was little to be found. She had been very lucky. Gently, I tilted her head against the fading daylight, studying her eyes. When her pupils failed to narrow more than a little, I was certain she had indeed contracted a concussion. The fact that she winced at the sudden change in brightness spoke for it as well.  
  
"Do you have a headache, Mademoiselle?" I asked, almost certain that she did.  
  
"Perhaps", she replied vaguely. Judging from her previous, reluctant conduct, it was a yes.  
  
Without further comment, I acknowledged her answer and continued my inquiry. In her frail condition, I knew better than to pry. "What is the last thing you recall before waking up?" I questioned carefully, hoping to find out more about the extent of her memory loss.  
  
Mademoiselle de Bourbon groaned. Quite obviously the certainty of missing part of her recollection irked her. "Not falling off at least," she muttered. "But I remember riding in the procession today..."  
  
At once her voice trailed off. A laboured gasp followed. Her breathing had just worsened. Suddenly heaving, she bent forward. Quickly I reached out to support her, afraid she would faint again. Yet it was not the case. The young woman was still conscious. Her chest was heaving fiercely as she panted, struggling for air. A powerful fit of panic had gripped her.  
Without another thought, I touched her clenched fist. "Mademoiselle, look at me." She shuddered, struggling to raise her head. When she looked up, pain contorted her ashen face. Helplessly, she kept on gasping, unable to curb her struggle for breath. Again I addressed her. "I know it hurts, but you must try to breathe normally. Otherwise, your state will get worse. Do you understand?"  
  
Despite her fading strength, the young woman managed a shaky nod. With quivering lips, she tried to breathe in deeply. Her painstaking attempt caused another agonized gasp. Again, she tried to inhale. This time, her chest rose more evenly; to no avail. It hurt her so much that she moaned from the pain.  
  
Suddenly, Mademoiselle's hands gripped my arms and I felt the weight of her head coming to rest against my shoulder. Once more, she attempted to breathe. This time, she succeeded, but at a high price: By the way she clung to me, pushing hard against my body, I knew that she was inwardly screaming in torment. Yet she forced herself to go on regardless, not uttering a single sound.  
  
"Very good, Mademoiselle", I told her, at a loss for better words. "I need you to keep going. Can you do that?" Seeing the ordeal she had already been through today, it would not have surprised me if she had begged me to put her to sleep. Instead, she just gave me another nod to simply continue my work. Her cruelly unyielding determination was most remarkable.  
  
I cast a quick glance at the Musketeers. "I need one of you to hold her steady," I said. Right now, laying her down was not an option. The pain of it would most likely knock her out again.  
  
"Let me", Porthos offered, visibly restless with concern.  
  
With a grateful sigh, I vacated my position by Mademoiselle's side, gingerly placing her hands on his shoulders. "Careful," I advised him quietly.  
  
"Don't worry, doctor," he reassured me with a fleeting half-smile. "We have been through worse together." I did not fail to notice that he seemed very glad of the opportunity to attend to his friend."Come here you", he whispered to Mademoiselle as he sat down next to her on the bed. With great gentleness, he wrapped an arm about her shoulders to keep her poised upright against his body. "And don't you cry all over my shirt this time."  
  
"Sod off", she groaned in a very low voice, just before punching his flank. I could not help but wonder just where she had found the strength to speak at all.  
  
Her toughness was as commendable as it was peculiar. What if she had only put it on to appear strong before her friends? If so, she was putting her already fragile health into pointless danger. I hoped that she was smarter than this. Bravery had no place in a sickroom.

 


	4. Laudanum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While one man cannot deny his affection for her, Désirée tries to deny the gravity of her pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this one, I so had to bring back Henri. I simply could not resist the temptation... Lol!
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains a slightly more graphic medical scene!

 

 

IV. Laudanum

 

Laudanum  ( _noun_ )  
Any preparation in which opium is the main ingredient. Tincture of opium.

 

"Your majesty has lost his mind!" Henri exclaimed.

He wanted to yell at Louis, to shake him. But his dignity forbade him to do either; at least in the council chamber.

The slight seemed harsh enough for the king. "Be careful what you say, cousin", Louis replied with the petulance of a toddler.

Henri did not like it. Over the past few months, Louis had become even weaker than before. Now he seemed almost feeble. More and more he had fallen prey to the bad influence of the wrong people. Now he had even come to accuse his own family.

"I cannot, sire, as long as you blame my niece for things she has not done", Henri snapped. "None of the events at the procession were her fault."

His royal cousin's lip quivered precariously. Any moment now he would combust into one of his ridiculous, unwarranted fits of anger. And so he did. "If she had not lost control over her horse, the procession would not have drowned in chaos."

 "Her horse dodged a bullet. It is a miracle she is not dead. And now stop insulting your own flesh and blood... sire." Henri spat out the honorific through gritted teeth. He was fuming, about to explode. "My niece is an honourable lady."

The king rolled his eyes. Obviously he was not done spewing insults at his own kin. "Then why did she not take a carriage, like all the other honourable ladies? It would have saved us from a lot of shame."

"Do not speak to me of shame. Your cousin has never been a shame to you before." It was true. Ever since ennobling her, Louis had been fond of Désirée. Yet today, this had changed, for no sensible reason whatsoever. "Why else did you make her a marquise?"

"I wonder why, indeed," his majesty snapped loftily. "You should know, cousin, that titles can be taken away, too."

"You would not dare!" Now Henri shouted. He had heard enough of this profanity. Even his patience for the king had limits. "If your majesty will excuse me, I have to see Mademoiselle's confessor. We have to make arrangements, should she require the last rites."

Henri paused meaningfully. Only when he saw the gleam of horror in his cousin's eye did he continue. "And should she require them you can have your titles back very soon."

For a long moment he enjoyed rubbing salt in the king's wounds. The mental image of his cousin's untimely demise was enough to remind his majesty that he had badly misspoken. But it hurt Henri, too. As much as Désirée often angered him, he could not bear to lose her now.

 Afraid to betray this inner fear, he quitted the royal presence, hurriedly, without his cousin's leave.

 **

Her body was still shuddering. If she had been less weak, it would be heaving instead. I was sure of it. Mademoiselle's pain had to be excruciating. I had to do something to decrease it; it was my duty. I could not stand here and let my patient suffer unduly for another second. So I acted. 

"Mademoiselle, I need to raise your shift now," I said, making sure that the sheets were tucked in firmly around her midriff, for decency's sake. 

Upon my patient's nod, I reached for her smock and carefully rolled it up. As the fabric came away from the skin, I perceived how Aramis flinched next to me. I understood the sentiment well. The young woman's chest looked gruesome:

Dark bruises speckled her whitish flesh, tinting it in intense shades of mauve, purple and black. In other places, small, angry red scabs stood out starkly against her natural pallor.  She had definitely taken a bad tumble. The painful sight made me feel a pang of pity that mirrored in the compassionate look on Porthos's face. He tightened his grip of Mademoiselle, clearly hoping that she would not venture a glimpse at the mess.

Yet it was too late. She had already spied the damage. Startled, she sucked in a sharp breath, struggling for composure. Afraid that she would slip into another fit of panic, I pressed her tremulous hand. "Do not fret, Mademoiselle. This looks far worse than it is." It was a fib, but I could not risk to upset her even more.

Quickly, I glanced at Evangeline, who had taken up a post of readiness in the room's far corner."There is a small flask of spirits in my case. I will need it now," I told her.

With a curt nod she went to the table that held the chest with my equipment and fetched it. When she walked up and handed it to me she blanched. In horror, she clasped her hands over her mouth, smothering a shriek. Seeing her mistress in such a condition was too much for her to take. Quickly, I made a step towards her, to shield her from the terrifying view. "I also require hot water and clean linen," I said as calmly as I could, in an impromptu attempt to soothe her.

Glad that I had not addressed her horror with a single word, Evangeline almost jumped at my request. "Right away, doctor," she murmured, then hurried away without daring to take another peek.

 As I uncorked the bottle and rubbed down my hands with the clear alcohol, I beheld my patient. Her breathing had become even more laboured now. The lack of air reaching her lungs was beginning to make her more lethargic by the minute. Fiercely, she clung to Porthos's shoulders as though for dear life. The twitch of her clenched fingers gave an unmistakable account of her agony. The young woman bore it very bravely, but the dull look in her amber eyes urged me to hurry. And so I did:

With care, I placed my palms against her bare skin. "Please tell me if you feel any pain or discomfort."

Mademoiselle merely nodded. When I palpated her ribs, she did not utter a sound. There was only a mild, but constant shiver under my touch. In her condition, it was hardly uncommon, since her muscles were greatly strained from the ongoing struggle for air. It bore no connection to the bruises. They seemed ordinary, and there were no fractures hidden underneath. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

Yet, when I approached the top of her rib cage, I faltered.  Towards her left side, the bruising intensified considerably. Something more serious awaited; I had to tread more carefully now. With my fingertips, I explored the length of every individual rib, inch by inch.

At once, a violent jerk went through the young woman's body. I stopped. Even though she had not said a word, she was shaking badly now. Porthos was stroking her cheek, trying to soothe her. After a moment, she pushed away his hand and gazed at me.

"How badly did it hurt?" I inquired, uncertain whether she would answer.

Yet Mademoiselle did. "A little ," she announced breathlessly with a lopsided smile parting her lips. It was so forced that I seriously questioned her understanding of 'a little'.

I tried to overlook her needless bravery, yet Aramis would not let the matter rest. "Désirée, what did we say about putting on a show?"

My patient glowered at him. "Do not patronize me," she growled, obviously at the end of her strength. His words had worked her up. Her heaving chest was telltale of it.

"Mademoiselle, please," I sighed. "You have to keep still." 

Her amber eyes darted my way. For a moment, I was afraid that she would snap at me as well. Surprisingly though, she looked highly apologetic. "Go on," she said, as she stirred, trying to get more comfortable against Porthos's side.

Glad of her temper cooling down, I did as I was instructed. "This may hurt," I warned before I cupped my hand around the ribs' outside bend. Upon exerting some pressure, the crunching noise of bone grinding against bone greeted me, followed by a low moan from my patient 

"These ribs have snapped clean through," I announced. "But you were lucky, Mademoiselle. They are the only broken ones."

"Is that all?" Mademoiselle questioned as she took in my words. She seemed unconvinced.

It was a good point. Two fractured ribs on their own hardly explained the full extent of her breathing problems. "Perhaps not," I conceded as I leaned closer to her chest, straining to listen for further obstructions.

And Mademoiselle's doubts rang true. The rattle near the fractures was not the only sound my ears picked up. There was another deep, wheezing noise I could not place. Most definitely, it was no further broken rib. Yet it seemed to originate from a place close to the fracture.

Slowly, I slid my palm over her ribcage, following the sound. Near her breastbone, my hand hit a sizeable bruise. It was filled with blood and felt soft to the touch.

When my palm pressed against it only slightly, my patient convulsed in agony. The bruise was very tender, causing Mademoiselle much more pain than the ribs. I let go at once.

"I am sorry, Mademoiselle", I murmured as she fought for composure.

"What for?" she gasped, rubbing at the tears of pain I had just brought to her eyes.

I sighed. Her level of denial was beyond exemplary. When I made no further reply, she returned her attention to Porthos, who enclosed her in a short embrace. I could easily be wrong, yet it looked as though he was in greater need of comfort than the young lady herself.

While her friend talked to her in a whisper, I approached Aramis. "I want to clean these cuts first. It will be quicker if you assist me."

"Of course," the Musketeer agreed readily and followed me across the room to fetch some implements.

I was glad of the brief opportunity to confer with him. He had warned me about Mademoiselle de Bourbon's quirks, so now that I had witnessed them, he might be able to provide me with some answers.

When I wanted to address him though, Evangeline had already approached him from her perch. While I dipped two pairs of forceps into the basin of boiling water she had laid out, I watched how Aramis tried to calm the maid's nerves. She looked more composed than earlier, but the mortification had never left her glum expression.

"Do not worry, Désirée has been through worse," Aramis assured her in a low voice.

"I know", Evangeline retorted with a shudder. "But sometimes, she frightens me so."

Sighing, the Musketeer patted her shoulder. "Believe me, she frightens herself, too," he stated before moving closer towards me again. "So, please, do not be afraid."

More or less reassured, the maid bowed her head in thanks and returned to her lookout. Now we finally got the chance to talk.

"Is Mademoiselle always so ... callous?" I inquired as I poured a quantity of spirits into a copper bowl, mixing it with a splash of hot water. It was hard to find the right words for what I wanted to say, yet the Musketeer understood me very well.

"With pain? Oh yes, ever since I have known her," he answered, as though her scarcely credible impression of bravery was nothing out of the ordinary.

Somewhat dumbfounded, I cut a few small scraps of linen from a bandage and dropped them into the alcohol solution. "Do you know why she does it?"

"I might", Aramis let on as he  picked up a few lengths of bandages. For a brief moment, a shadow of pity flickered across his face. "Yet I am not at liberty to say much about it. It is something she has to tell you herself."

"I understand." Surely, everyone was entitled to their secrets. If my patient wanted me to know, she would eventually tell me. So I let the matter rest and collected my instruments. "We better not make her wait."

The notion made Aramis smirk fleetingly. "Yes, that, too, is rather unwise," he commented before we returned to Mademoiselle's bedside.

She was already expecting us, with a chilling, deadpan look of readiness in her eyes. "What do you need the forceps for?" she questioned in a half murmur.

"They greatly facilitate the cleaning of your wounds, Mademoiselle", I explained as I picked up a pair and fished a piece of soaked  linen from the bowl I had placed on the nightstand. 

"This will sting." Gingerly, I pressed the cloth against her skin and set out to cleanse the small cuts. Despite herself, the young woman cringed. Her face, however, hardly changed.

"Don't forget to breathe," I heard Porthos whisper, just as her chest was about to contract in another spasm. This time, she managed to ward it off.

"Can you take care of the other side?" I asked of Aramis who had been eyeing my cleaning method with bemusement.

With a nod, he grabbed the other pair of thongs and began dabbing the deep red scratches on her other side. As he did, Mademoiselle glared at him for increasing her discomfort.

For some reason, Aramis thought it a good idea to distract her with banter. "This really looks as though you took a little trip through the gravel," he commented as began to scrub at another cluster of encrusted blood.

"I will give you gravel, Monsieur," she quipped through gritted teeth, wholly unamused.

"You can try," he shot back with a playful smile as he grasped a bigger piece of linen. Very gently, he pressed it against a long scratch that ran along the top of her left cheek. As he dabbed the cloth against her skin, he caught a single teardrop on his fingertip.

"There, don't cry," Aramis whispered with an affectionate caress of her dark hair. At once, another tear dripped onto the bedding. The young woman's facade was beginning to crumble. After all she had been through today, the suffering and exhaustion were finally catching up with her.

In an onrush of compassion, I touched her hand. It felt cold and wet against mine. "Mademoiselle, I am going to bind your rib now. It will not be pleasant. So, if you wish, I can give you an opiate. It will let you sleep through the pain."

It was the wrong thing to say. Without warning, the small emotional crack she had allowed to shine through seemed to freeze over with hard ice. The stare she passed me was perfectly glacial, making me feel as though I had spoken highly out of turn.

"You can keep your laudanum," she told me in a shaky, yet very commanding voice. "I will not touch it."

Laudanum. It was strange she should call it by that name. It was the term most unlearned people used for every pain remedy they did not know. But she had used it out of deliberation, not ignorance. She knew that both names denoted the same ingredient. If she had been in a less frail state, I would have tried her knowledge now.

"Just tell me when you change your mind, Mademoiselle," I replied equably, even though she had made it crystal clear that she had no intention of doing so. And I could only respect her wishes.

Her friends, however, had not liked her harsh tone. "Désirée, that was rude," Porthos admonished her with a click of his tongue. "Doctor Lemay was only being considerate."

"And I am entitled to my opinion," she shot back with a nearly murderous glare.

The Musketeers' reaction to her anger bewildered me. From one moment to the next they simply ignored her. "Did I just say she wasn't entitled?" Porthos inquired of Aramis.

"I do not think you did," Aramis quipped. "If only she would be less insistent on the whole entitlement business."

"Yes," Porthos said. "I think an apology would be nice."

His comrade rolled his eyes. "It would be, but we will not get one out of her. When have you ever known the Marquise d'Isles to apologize?"

"Stop it, both of you," Mademoiselle groaned. When she turned to me, I did not miss the embarrassed flush creeping into her cheeks. "Forgive me, Monsieur." It was hard for her to make the sudden change in sentiment sound credible.

"Now, that is more like it," Aramis observed with a smile into my direction. "Shall we get on then?"

"If Mademoiselle does not mind," I replied. 

When she did not object, Aramis took over from Porthos. He reached for her hands and laid them on his shoulders. "Ready?" he asked.

The question felt superfluous. Mademoiselle would never be ready for more pain. And I was never ready to inflict it on her. Yet I had to, for her benefit.


	5. Syncope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fever and fainting are a bad combination!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another slightly unsettling chapter, containing minor character death (non-graphic) and other unpleasantness. Still I hope you enjoy your read! Please let me know how you liked it! =)

V. Syncope

Syncope ( _noun)  
_ Fainting. Loss of consciousness.

 

Upon my patient's nod, I touched the fractured rib, to assure it was not misaligned. She moaned from the pain. It was only Aramis's strength that kept her weakened body upright. As I passed the bandage around her torso, her muscles convulsed.  
  
"Easy, Mademoiselle," I soothed her. If the spasm did not cease, I would end up binding her chest too tightly. "Do not hold your breath."  
  
She gritted her teeth and tried to breathe, as hard as she could. Under my touch, I felt her shudder from the effort of filling her lungs with air. Gradually her muscles relaxed, a little bit more with every rasping breath she took. Before they could cramp again, I finished wrapping the bandage. Once I tied it off, Mademoiselle exhaled with relief. She had done well, in spite of her exhaustion. Before I knew it, I found my hand patting hers in wordless praise. I noticed that it felt even icier than before.  
  
Suddenly, I saw Aramis tense up. From where he stood, he had seen something I had missed. "She is fainting!" he called out, full of urgency.  
  
When I looked at my patient, I saw that her body had grown limp from one second to the next, threatening to slip his grip. Alarmed I rushed forward. "We must lay her down."  
  
With a nod, the Musketeer let go of Mademoiselle's shoulders. With the utmost care, I took over, slowly guiding her fall, until her head rested safely in my cupped hands. Concerned, I studied her face. For an instant, it seemed as if she was still lucid. Instinctively, I slapped her cheek. "Mademoiselle, do you hear me?"  
  
But it was too late. Split seconds later, her eyes rolled out of focus and the last shred of consciousness abandoned her. At the same time her whole body arched under the strain of a frightful shudder. Afraid to drop her, I slid an arm under the small of her back. I let her head sink against the pillow. The change of position eased her spasm. As I removed my hand, it brushed against a strange prominence near her spine.  
  
Startled, I put it right back. My instincts urged me to search for more abnormalities. And I found them: A great score of scars, most of them knotted and badly healed, ran alongside her backbone. They were definitely not fresh. How had I failed to notice them before? And why were they here at all? Scars of this kind only pointed to one thing, a thing that had no place on a highborn lady's back. Struggling to ban the horror from my expression, I glanced at the two Musketeers. "My god, has she been flogged?"  
  
"Yes," Porthos replied grimly, making no effort to hide his anger. "A long ago, in China."  
  
I gasped involuntarily. "But why?"  
  
"Under false charges," Aramis explained with a woeful shake of his head. "But the culprit has long been brought to justice. Although it does not change the fact that she has only survived this atrocity with God's help."  
  
"It does not indeed," I agreed. The scars spoke of deep, bleeding wounds; harbingers of lethal inflammation and unfathomable pain. "Is this why she chooses to suffer in silence?"  
  
Aramis merely sighed. "It is. But, please, do not mention it in front of her. She would not take it favourably."

  
"Of course," I agreed quietly before my attention returned to Mademoiselle. As of yet, the cause of her collapse remained unclear to me.  
  
Her breathing had improved now, so I doubted it was responsible this time. Then I beheld the sheen of newly broken sweat on her forehead. When touched it, it felt much hotter than it had only half an hour ago.  
  
"The fever has worsened. We must make sure that her temperature does not rise further," I told her friends.  
  
Understanding what I meant, Porthos approached the bowl of wash water one of the maids had left behind after cleaning her mistress's face. He grasped the washcloth and sat down by the young woman's side. As he set out to dab her forehead, the distinctively pungent scent of lavender oil laced the air.  
  
It was interesting to find it in the water. No doubt, someone had added it for the cooling it was believed to provide. I wondered who had done this. After Mademoiselle de Bourbon's strange remark earlier, I was about to ascribe this touch to her. Yet she had not been conscious at the time. I had to be frowning, since Evangeline suddenly caught my eye. Still cowed by the aspect of her mistress's chest, she approached me with great caution.  
  
"Is something amiss, doctor?" She inquired with some insecurity while her eyes travelled between me and the water bowl.  
  
"Everything is fine," I assured her. "Did you add lavender oil to the water?"  
  
Evangeline chewed her lip. I had made her feel nervous. "Yes ... I thought Mademoiselle would approve. She did the same when her cousin had a fever, to keep him cool," she blushed. "Was it wrong of me?"  
  
"No," I replied, trying to smile at her. "It was good thinking, although I doubt it will be beneficial."  
  
With a brief nod I dismissed the maid and rejoined my patient. Surely, her fever was too pronounced to respond to any herbs. Yet they would do no harm. Once more, I touched her forehead and cheeks. They were red-hot. Soon, I would have to intervene, before the temperature became a serious threat to her life.  
  
Aramis seemed to pick up on my concerns. He sat down on the bed's edge, straightening his friend's shift and wrapping her into the cool silken sheets. "Do you think she will come to again soon?"  
  
"It is hard to say," I replied, thoughtfully pursing my lips. "Fever and exhaustion are a bad combination. Either way, if her condition does not improve, I shall have to bleed her."  
  
"Then Désirée had better wake up before that," Aramis replied with a wince. "Knowing her, she will be very displeased otherwise."  
  
I sighed. From what I had experienced so far, I knew that the Musketeer was hardly joking. Perhaps, the young lady would even be furious about my actions. Yet it did not matter. As her physician, I had a responsibility towards her life. If bad came to worse, I simply had to do it; for her noble family would hardly forgive me if she died.  
  
**  
  
Désirée was in China. She did not know how she had come here. Three years had passed since she had last set foot in this place. Or had they never happened? Her mind could not decide which reality was the dream.  
  
Yet she had lived through this very moment before. She was in her father's bedroom. With slow, heavy steps, she walked towards the narrow cot by the small window. A part of her screamed out in protest. She did not want to approach. Her father lay dying. It was the last time she would see him alive. She did not want to remember him like this, yellow-skinned and shaking, his life slowly fading, seeping from his soft green eyes, leaving them forever dull. But he had asked for her. It had been his final wish, aside from receiving last communion.  
  
And he beckoned for her to come closer. His once so strong hand reached out to her. It was stiff, with bony fingers, refusing to move at his will. Désirée grasped it. When her fingertips brushed against his sweaty skin, grief overwhelmed her. She tumbled to her knees. Her palms hit the coarse linen blanket. The rice straw inside pricked them, reminding her to feign composure.  
  
Outside, summer was raging with its wet, brutal heat. Yet her father was cold, so cold. It had been the first sign of trouble, some days after his return from Hainan. Fever and vomiting had followed. Now, only two weeks later, the ague had wasted him. He was no longer strong enough to even be sick. But he refused to show his weakness, although his final hour was upon him.  
  
"My child," he whispered. He spoke Greek. The ability to speak French had left him days ago. Now his mind only recalled the tongue closest to his heart.  
  
"Father, I ...," she replied. Her head rested on the coverlet. She wanted to bury her face. It was hard to look at him.  
  
He sensed her struggle, in spite of his clouded mind. And, he disapproved. "Be still and remember what the Lord will give you on this day."  
  
"But He is taking you away from me!" She called out in anger. What good was there in such divine cruelty?  
  
His cold finger touched her lip, silencing her. "And you will be free," he breathed. A weak smile contorted his face. It was a dead man's grimace. Désirée felt his heavy hand on her hair. Shakily, he made the sign of the cross on her forehead, blessing her.  
  
At once she broke down. Her head fell against the bedding. Her body was paralyzed with sadness. She was sobbing, drowning in her tears. Free? She would never be free. Before that, she would die herself. Without him, she would never be safe again.  
  
"I love you," she whispered. But her father did not hear. He was quickly drifting from lucidity. She had lost him. Now those who despised her would strike.  
  
The proof of their hatred descended upon her within moments. Someone grabbed her, dragging her away from him. It was one of the other Fathers. Now they would do with her as they pleased. Désirée did not struggle. She knew what she had become: a nuisance, a spurious orphan, a sacrilegious existence, unworthy to attend her father's last rites. She remained deathly still in the grip that manhandled her from the room. Only when her face hit the stone tiles in the hall did she stir. Now sadness and anger unleashed their force.  
  
Désirée screamed to the heavens. Blind with grief, she wailed, tearing her hair, mourning, suffering. Her feelings were selfish. She was sinning, even before Father's soul had departed. The Hail Mary was on her lips. It was in Chinese...

_Wanfu Maliya, Ni chongman shengchong. Zhu yu Ni tong zai! Ni zai funü zhong shou zansong, Ni de Qinzi Yesu tong shou zansong._   
_Tianzhu Shengmu Maliya, qiu Ni xianzai he women linzhong shi,..._

 

"... wei women zuiren qiqiu Shangzhu."  
  
"Désirée, you know I don't speak Chinese!" Porthos's face hovered above hers, his brows knitted up with concern.  
  
Had she been praying? Désirée did not remember. As she felt Porthos's big, soft hand caressing her hair, she wondered if he thought her to be mad now.  
  
She tried again, this time in shaky French. "What happened?"  
  
"You fainted again," he said.  
  
She did not recall that either. The thought frightened her. Fainting was bad; not remembering it was even worse. Startled, she tried to sit up in bed. But a hand held her back, gently pinning her arm against the mattress.  
  
"That is not a good idea, Mademoiselle. The fever has weakened you too much." Désirée blinked. Who was this stranger, pushing himself between her and Porthos?  
  
Lemay... Gradually, her recollection returned. He was a physician, so his warning probably had a point. Désirée obeyed him and stayed put. "How bad is it?" she inquired, not for the first time today.  
  
"It is a cause for concern," he informed her, cutting straight to the point. "Enough so that I need to apply leeches to control it."  
  
Upon the mention of leeches, her face derailed with sheer disbelief. "No," she brought out, in a tone that broached no argument.  
  
He took her refusal with professional coolness. "Mademoiselle, I assure you that leeching is an infallible method to draw fever from the body."  
  
"Do not be ridiculous," she retorted with a roll of her eyes. He would not patronize her over this nonsense. She had not taken him for an incompetent fool; until now.  "Leeches do not draw heat, they draw blood."  
  
"That is so," he responded. At least he made a visible effort to try and understand her point. Still, he missed it. "The source of the heat, however, is an excess of blood."  
  
So much ignorance was incredible. She would not allow him to exercise it on her body. It was hard not to snap. Lemay had earned her scorn. Though, before she could let him feel it, she had to get Porthos out of the way. She did not want him to witness her meanness.  
   
"Fetch me some water, will you?" She asked her friend with a sweet smile, pretending to ignore Lemay's last remark. Only when Porthos had left the room to fulfill her request, did she look back at the physician. He cringed under the unpleasantness of her gaze. And rightly so. She wanted him to know that she had expected far less idiocy of a learned man.


	6. Hirudines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a physician makes a deal, it sometimes involves leeches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may be mildly unsettling because it contains little, slimy bloodsuckers.
> 
> Désirée definitely agrees. Otherwise she would not be arguing with the dear doctor yet again... ;)

VI. Hirudines

Hirudines ( _Latin noun, plural)_

Leeches

 

"Did you just quote Galen to me?" she questioned, obviously not awaiting an answer. "I thought you had more sense than that."

It was a slight and doubtlessly meant as such. This time I could hardly give her the benefit of the doubt. I was about to respond, cautiously and with respect to her frail state. Yet, before I knew it, Aramis took the scolding upon himself.

"Désirée, that is quite enough. Being sick does not give you the liberty to hurt innocent people," he rebuked her, having a hard time not to raise his voice. "Especially not when they are only trying to help you."

Her response consisted of a stone-hard glare. "You will keep out of this," she snapped. As he opened his mouth to protest, she looked away, ignoring him completely.

"Now," she announced, with an unreadable glance back at me. "I prefer it if you stopped standing there, looking at me so pitifully."

"Mademoiselle, if you do not wish me to... " I began, unsure how to address her sudden change of attitude.

But she silenced me with a brisk wave of her hand. Next she pointed at a nearby chair. "Please, sit, so we can talk properly."

I did as she wished, not quite sure why. Although when I had pulled up the chair to her bedside, her expression had softened a little. Perhaps she even felt a little guilty about what she had said.

"Would you like an apology, Monsieur?" She offered it almost sheepishly.

"In fact, yes, I would," I replied, trying to sound offended but failing miserably. Something in her amber eyes made me falter.

"Then please excuse me for getting personal. That was tactless of me." Despite her still unmistakable weakness, she conjured a disarming smile to her lips. It only lasted a few seconds yet it seemed absolutely sincere. "Nevertheless, I cannot change my opinion on Galen."

Intrigued, I frowned at her. She really seemed learned in peculiar fields for a young noblewoman. Or was this merely something she had picked up somewhere? "Why do his teachings displease you? Did you actually read them?"

"I have read the original," she replied. "It is amusing enough. Just most of his notions about humours seem peculiar to me."

"Yet many learned men have successfully adhered to his works for a long time," I said, well aware that I might be ambling on very thin ice.

Mademoiselle de Bourbon rolled her eyes. "Successfully? I doubt that. And so did Paracelsus. You seem to follow some of his teachings. So why not this one?"

It was interesting she should bring up my countryman next. How come she had delved so deeply into contemporary medicine? "Paracelsus has made many groundbreaking discoveries, but... " I began and never finished. Porthos had returned from his errand.

After a rather bewildered look into the round, he crouched down next to his friend and passed her the clay cup of water he had brought. Yet her hand was shaking so badly that he had to help her drink. The scene reminded me of how urgently her fever required treatment. She might still have the strength to discuss with me now, yet it was waning quickly.

When she had drunk enough, Porthos cast another shrewd look across the room. "Did anything happen while I was gone?"

"Well, Mademoiselle Désirée thought she could simply insult and upset the people who care for her," Aramis replied, still sounding appalled by her earlier behaviour.

"Is that so?" Porthos awarded Mademoiselle a stern look.

She only shrugged. "I apologized."

"She apologized," he repeated to Aramis, his gaze wandering towards the ceiling.

"But not to everyone she has slighted," he added with an air of expectation.

Mademoiselle groaned. "You will get your apology, Aramis. Once the grown-ups are done talking..." The comment provoked Porthos to chuckle. Then the sullen look on Aramis's face made him stop again, as soon as he had begun.

"You were saying, Monsieur?" the young lady inquired, reclaiming my attention.

"That Paracelsus was most likely wrong about curing fever," I remarked. "Most of his proposed concoctions of precious metals are ineffective."

She nodded muttering, "I can believe that. But he had a point about leeches. Remind me, what did he say?"

For sure, she knew his views. However, she prefered to test me. And, for peace's sake, I chose to play along. "That excessive bloodletting is prone to disturb the system."

"Precisely. And, has it never occurred to you that a fever on its own already upsets the system?" she inquired. Admittedly, it posed a sound argument. Although it hardly solved the problem at hand.

I could not help but protest, for her lown sake: "However, Mademoiselle, your fever requires treatment. And, regrettably, I see no other options."

That did not perturb my patient at all. "I might know something, if you are willing to bear with me."

"As long as it is not lavender oil," I quipped, feeling momentarily defeated. Perhaps, if I let her try things her way first, she would finally accept my suggestion.

She gave me a strange look before she just shook her head and signalled for Evangeline to approach. Once the maid was by her side, she whispered something into her ear. With a nod, she backed away again and vanished out of sight. Not much later, Evangeline reappeared. She was carrying a small glass jar. When she handed it to her mistress, I saw that it contained a coarse, rust brown powder.

"What is it?" I inquired with cautious curiousity.

"Peruvian bark," she explained. "It has cured a lady in the Americas of the ague."

Perplexed, I blinked at her. A fellow scholar had told me of this occurrence not long ago. Yet it bemused me how Mademoiselle had come by the actual substance. For all I knew, Jesuit missionaries had just brought back small quantities of Petuvian bark to Spain.

"It seems to hold promise indeed," I observed once my composure had returned. "If you wish, Mademoiselle, I will let you try it. But I shall remain skeptical."

"Of course," she stated. "I appreciate your concern."

Then, suddenly, another thought crossed my mind. A part of me wanted to prove that leeches were not as useless as she believed. I wondered why I had not considered this before: There was still the matter of her blood-infested bruise. It was too close to her heart to lance it; unless I wanted to risk an inflammation. A leech would cause no such problems, while taking away the excess blood all the same.

"Aside from that, I might have a condition," I ventured bravely.

Mademoiselle's reaction consisted of a cockily raised brow. "Then name it."

"Allow me to apply a single leech to your chest, to drain the blood from the bruise," I said, trying to make it sound reasonable. After all, I had never tried this method before. The theory, however, was impeccable.

Hearing of leeches again caused Mademoiselle to wrinkle her nose. "You drive a hard bargain, Monsieur," she complained, but made no objection. "Do what you think is right."

"Very well," I could not help but shake my head with disbelief. The challenge this feisty young lady provided was even greater than I had feared. Besides, I was not used to having educated disputes with my patients. It was something I had not done at all, since leaving the Sorbonne.

As I went back to my equipment, Aramis approached me. He had apparently not fully digested his friend's words yet. "Did she really apologize?" He inquired with a frown.

"She did and, in fact, she brought up a few good points," I confirmed as I wiped down the small lancet I had just taken from the hot water bath. "You would not know how she acquired such knowledge, would you?"

"Oh," for some obscure reason, Aramis grinned. "She grew up around Jesuits and, it appears, she was often bored."

"That is ... quite special." I passed one of my leech jars to him. This also explained how she had received the powder.

With a sigh, I walked back to Mademoiselle who did not look very happy as she glimpsed the large glass container with half a dozen black leeches swimming back and forth inside. Porthos, who had helped her raise her shift again noticed her unease at once. In an attempt to calm her nerves, he reached out to rub her back.

"Trust me, Mademoiselle, it is not as bad as it looks," I reassured her.

A heavy groan preceded her response. "Fine, let us do this before I get sick." She did not look at me and kept on staring at the leeches. It seemed as though she was absolutely horrified of them.

"All right, Mademoiselle." Gingerl, I placed the tip of the slender lancet against the centre of her bruise. "I will prick your skin now. Just a little, to ensure that the leech latches on in the right spot and does not wander off."

"Oh for heaven's sake," she murmured. "It has no bloody legs."

"Quite true." Although I took great care not to cause her pain, she winced as the blade perforated her skin. To me, her reaction looked more like a product of surprise Once I had drawn a single drop of blood I put down the lancet. It was hard to take her fright entirely serious. Yet I managed to keep a professionally straight face as I reached into the jar, mindful to pick one of the smaller leeches. I had no wish to mortify her even more.

When I held it up between two fingers, I saw tears glistening in the young woman's eyes. Aramis had seen them as well. From one moment to the next, the sight dissolved the last of his resentment towards her.

"You need not cry," he pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed her cheeks. "It is only a tiny leech. It will not hurt you."

While he distracted her, I took the opportunity and put the leech onto her chest. After no more than a second, it smelled the fresh blood. Arching downward, the little black creature anchored itself to the bruise and started drinking.

"There we are," I informed my patient. She had not even noticed the leech's bite.  
Startled she gazed down herself. The aspect alone sufficed to worsen her tears. So far, my patient had not seemed afraid of much. Yet this small, innocent creature was enough to reduce her to a sobbing mess.

"How long will it stay there?" She questioned shakily. It was obvious how she would have liked to see it gone again by the very next second.

"Until it detaches itself," I observed calmly. "It will not take too long, I can promise you as much."

Mademoiselle shuddered. At the same time, she showed embarrassment about her tears. With her sleeve, she rubbed them away as, gradually, some degree of composure returned to her features. "What a gross little thing," she announced quietly. More loudly she inquired, "Do you name them?"

"Why should I, Mademoiselle?" I asked in return. Some of her comments made it hard for me to forget her fever. "They are tools, nothing more. And, besides, they are rather hard to tell apart."

My patient merely nodded, trying hard not to quiver with revulsion yet again. She was not getting over it. "Oh goodness," she looked like she was about to vomit. In her frail state, that would be catastrophic. But she composed herself, just in time to prevent a mess.

Visibly ashamed of her disgust, Mademoiselle looked at me. "Would you hold my hand?"

It was an unexpected request. But I complied. While the leech did its work, I had little else to occupy me. So I laid my left hand on the sheets. Hurriedly Mademoiselle grasped it, as though she feared I would pull it away. I would not think of it. Not even as I felt the fierceness of her grip. Like daggers, her nails dug into my flesh. She was even more agitated than her horrified looks betrayed.

"Hey," Porthos gave her a little nudge. "Why does he get to hold your hand? It used to be my job!"

"Because you are already rubbing my back," she sighed. "Please, do not stop!"

A flicker of guilt crossed Porthos's face. "Oh, of course not...forgive me." The Musketeer resumed his back rubbing duties right away. His large hand stroked my patient's backside in slow, gentle circles.

I could not help but think of how peculiar the situation had just become. And all thanks to a solitary, harmless leech.


	7. Cinchona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Désirée is trying to help her cure in an unusual way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After moving house, the story is finally back! I hope you can excuse the delay and enjoy the new chapter! 
> 
> Please also note the little health and safety warning at the end. ;)

VII. Cinchona

Cinchona ( _Latin noun_ )

Medicinal plant, source of quinine

Evangeline frowned at the brown, lukewarm atrocity in the porcelain jug. The decoction smelled bilious, so much worse than the ox gall from the laundry. She wondered why any sane person would drink this vile decoction. But her mistress was not fully sane. At least not presently. So she had simply done as instructed. Today was no good day to upset Mademoiselle by disobedience. And what would Monsieur Aramis think if she did that? She did not want to know.

Carefully she juggled her load into the bedroom. She tried to face away from the disgusting liquid. Its smell made her sick. But, as she glaced towards her mistress's bed, Evangeline quickly revised her decision. It seemed the physician had gotten leave to bleed her. Watching the scene made Evangeline even sicker.

Mademoiselle looked helpless and fearful. It took her friends' joint effort to distract her from the pulsating black leech on her bare chest. Evangeline wondered why nobody had covered it with a sheet. Men, especially educated ones, were stupendously impractical sometimes.

With an inward groan, she put the jug and the small cup of honey on the table. She had tried to do so quietly. Though the faint noise was enough to make Evangeline the centre of attention; the distraction everyone had craved.

Her mistress encouraged the physician to let go of her hand, motioning for him to handle the rest of the preparation. But, to Evangeline, the poor man looked quite clueless. He did not try to hide the fact.

"How do you want me to proceed, Mademoiselle?" He inquired, frowning in an adorable way.

"It has to be diluted, with the same quantity of water," Mademoiselle said. She wanted to sound sure, but Evangeline knew her so well, she spotted the traces of insecurity on her fever-flushed face at once.

"Doctor," she handed him the jug. From the way he wrinkled his nose she could guess what the physician thought of the steeped bark's smell. Quickly, she passed him the cup with the honey, too. "Try this. Perhaps it improves the taste."

"Thank you," he responded in a nearly conspiratorial whisper. "But I think that no honey in the world could amend it." He winked at her. "Although, every little helps."

Slowly he poured the small cup half full. Then he let her top it off with water. Once he had given the mixture a thorough swig, he returned to Mademoiselle.

"This may be hard to keep down," he cautioned her. Only then did he allow her to take the cup.

Very carefully, she enclosed it with both her hands. "I am aware of that," she replied before she raised it to her lips. As she did, her arms trembled from exhaustion.

Quickly, Mademoiselle swallowed the cup's contents. Then she pressed a hand over her mouth until she had successfully forced down the liquid.

"Goodness," she sighed in a show of unnecessary bravado. "This needs a splash of brandy."

Porthos creased his brows at her words. "If you talk of brandy, it must be hellish," he stated and beckoned for the cup.

For no reason Evangeline could think of, he tried the last drops she had left behind. He spat them back out as quickly as he had drunk them. "Brandy it is," he concluded, coughing hoarsely.

Her mistress's cheek twitched, as though she was about to laugh at the Musketeer. But no sound came. This very second, her eyes widened. Gripped by sudden shock, she glanced at her legs. Her whole body started quivering with disgust.

The leech had just fallen off and landed on the sheet. There it now crawled forward in slow bursts of movement, dragging a small trail of bright red blood behind it. Evangeline shuddered. Helplessly she watched as blank terror contorted Mademoiselle's face.

**

"Take it off, now!" Mademoiselle demanded. She looked nauseated. Had her voice not been so paper-thin, she would have surely shrieked.

As fast as possible, I grabbed the nearest bowl and scooped the engorged leech into it. The wound it had left needed immediate care. I had best get to it before she panicked and made matters difficult for both of us.  
I passed the bowl to Aramis who handed me some linen to soak up her blood. When the red outpour cleared away, I saw that the leech had reduced the bruise considerably. For a short moment, I pressed the cloth against the swelling to squeeze out a little more blood. I half expected Mademoiselle to snap at me, but she did not even flinch. This surprised her as well.

"I do not feel a thing," she murmured thoughtfully.

"I believe leeches produce their own anodyne," I told her while gently rubbing the site of the leech bite with spirits. Even now, she hardly reacted. "They are quite resourceful little creatures after all."

She ventured another glance at the leech in the bowl and shuddered. "If only they weren't so ugly."

"God has surely created them this way for a reason," Aramis put in before he removed the leech from her sight.

In the meanwhile, I dressed the wound. "It will continue bleeding for the next few hours," I informed her. "Make sure to keep the wound dry and change the dressings as needed."

"We will. Though Evangeline will not enjoy this in the least..." Ponderously, she roused herself to lean against my shoulders as I wrapped the bandage around her back. While she held on to me, I sensed how she struggled to hold her own weight. She was pushing a lot of it on me, probably without noticing. It was telltale of her prevailing weakness.

"For now, Mademoiselle, you will also require strict bed rest until your condition has improved sufficiently," I stated as I assisted her to lie back down. Certainly, her response to my advice would not be very joyous.

And indeed, she shook her head, groaning with exasperation. "Bed rest, in this house? I am sorry, Monsieur, but it is a near impossibility."

"Surely, your family will understand that..." I began, before a brief shake of the head from Aramis told me that Mademoiselle was making a sound argument.

I had no idea what the problem was. And nobody saw any necessity to explain it to me. I had heard my share about the Condé family; yet why they would take no interest in the young woman's recuperation was beyond me. So I decided not to inquire into the matter any further. It felt pointless.

Instead I began to tidy away my equipment. No two seconds later, my attempt was interrupted. Porthos had stirred, listening intently. Something had alerted the Musketeer's sharp ears.

"Someone is coming," he announced, moments before I first heard the approaching footsteps. They belonged to at least two people and were definitely bound for this room.  Perhaps now I would learn what Mademoiselle de Bourbon had been on about...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note on the cinchona bark: What Désirée is doing here is actually quite irresponsible. The quinine in the bark can have some serious side effects if taken in high concentrations.
> 
> Some people make their own tonic water today, but it can be tricky to get a safe concentration even with that. If you are interested, here is a good article on it: http://www.alcademics.com/2014/08/potential-dangers-of-homemade-tonic-water.html


	8. Languour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected visitor arrives.

VIII. Languour

Languour ( _Noun_ )

A state of body or mind caused by exhaustion; characterized by languid feelings.

 

"That would be Armand," Mademoiselle de Bourbon observed in a low voice. The approaching intruder seemed to irritate her. I had expected her to enter a state of alarm. Yet I was lucky to be wrong, fortuitously evading the need to calm her nerves.

"Which Armand?" Aramis asked in a brief instant of confusion.

She rolled her eyes. "My cousin, silly, not the cardinal's ghost."

"Oh, of course, the princeling." Aramis cleared his throat. His question had obviously left him a little embarrassed.

"Perhaps he can be persuaded to give Mademoiselle some peace and return later?" I put in, concerned whether my patient was strong enough to receive a visitor at all, despite her calmness.

She, however, thought little of my suggestion. "You can try. The Prince de Conti, though, will always get what he wants", she stated with a wink.

Inexplicably, Porthos met her comment with a chuckle. "And don't forget to bow, he tends to feel belittled if you do not."

Before I got any chance to respond, the wide double doors opened a crack. An older servant stumbled, rather than walked, inside. She appeared afraid to interrupt us. Somewhat unsure whether she was doing so, she curtsied. "Forgive me Mademoiselle, but his highness has been adamant about paying you a visit. If it is inconvenient..."

"Is it not always inconvenient?" Mademoiselle replied, managing to perplex the elder woman even more. "Just show him in."

But there was no need to usher the prince into her presence. Suddenly, a little boy peered out from behind the maid's skirts. He had to be about three years old, although looking rather short and frail for his age. His wild shock of brown curls bounced up and down as he ran towards us. The moment he caught sight of his cousin, his dark oval eyes lit up with sheer joy. "Cousin Désirée!" He squealed delightedly as he jumped onto the bed. Its wooden frame protested with a noisy creak.

I found myself wincing, afraid that he might hurt Mademoiselle with his boisterous approach. Luckily, she had been prepared for her cousin's assault. Despite her lack of strength she held on to the boy with remarkably quick reflexes.

"Careful, your little highness," she cautioned him, "your cousin is somewhat worse for wear at present."

"Oh." Almost startled, he looked around. Only now did he notice the Musketeers and me. As he gazed at us, we dutifully took our turns at bowing. It always felt strange to pay respects to a toddler, yet it was his divine right as a member of the royal family.  
Despite his young age, he appeared to realize that he had barged into a difficult situation.

"Are you sick?" he asked of his cousin, frowning full of worry.

"One could say so," she replied, tousling his hair with her fingertips.

But the little one was not so easily pacified. With a very skeptical look on his face, he gazed back at me. "Who is that?"

Mademoiselle sighed, it was obvious she did not like his broody seriousness. "Doctor Lemay, allow me to introduce his highness, Armand de Bourbon, Prince de Conti," she introduced us very formally, causing the little prince to furrow his brow even more.

"Is she going to die?" He asked of me very sincerely. In his childish understanding of the world, the presence of a physician seemed to bode ill.

"Do not worry, your highness. I am confident that your cousin will not die anytime soon," I replied calmly. The news took the fearful look off his round, angelic face at once, much to Mademoiselle's relief.

Prince Armand was smiling now. He crawled into his cousin's lap. "If you die, nobody will tell me bedtime stories anymore," he stated as he slung his scrawny arms around her waist. As he cuddled up to his cousin, his face buried itself in the folds of her shift.

"Surely, someone would," she said. Then she learned over to plant a kiss on his messy hair.

"But I'd hate them all," he complained in a low murmur, refusing to look up.

His views made Porthos smile. "Very true, your highness. Cousin Désirée's stories are the best."

Glad to find support in the Musketeer, the boy spun around and beamed at him. In the meanwhile, Mademoiselle could not help but laugh at their exchange. Her reflex avenged itself in a pained cough. Yet she put on a brave face and pretended to ignore it. "I daresay Monsieur Porthos's tales are not much worse," she offered with a wink at her Musketeer friend.

"Really?" her cousin inquired, stifling a yawn. It had to be close to his bed time. He began to lose interest in his surroundings quickly now. Instead of awaiting an answer to his last question, he curled up on the sheets, much like a sleepy kitten. With a small sigh, Mademoiselle allowed it, gingerly caressing his back as he began to doze off. Then, suddenly, she thought of something.

"Say, Armand," she whispered, "have you heard any news of your father today?"

Yawning again, the prince gazed back up at her. "No, why? But nanny said he just got home..." With this, he rolled over. Not much later, he was sound asleep, his little hands nestling at the bedclothes.

I hoped that my patient would do the same soon. Yet these unforseen news had startled her. "Is that so?" she inquired briskly of the nursemaid who was still waiting by the door.

"Yes, Mademoiselle," she replied, "his highness has recently returned from court."

"Wonderful," she moaned. "I thought he would go right back to Bourges instead."

"It seems Monseigneur has changed his plans," the maid replied, bewildered to be asked about this at all.

Mademoiselle exchanged a fleeting glance with Aramis. They seemed to share an unpleasant sense of foreboding. "Then we better sort things out, before he comes upstairs," she decided, sounding somewhat rushed. "How about you take Armand to his own bed? Afterwards, you two better wait downstairs."

"Yes, that sounds like a plan", Aramis agreed while Porthos lifted up the prince and followed the maid to his bedroom. "Will you be all right on your own?"

"Who said I will be all alone?" She retorted, with a meaningful look at me. "If it is no trouble, Monsieur, I would like you to stay for another while."

"If you wish, Mademoiselle," I agreed. Yet it made little sense to me. In a conversation with her uncle, I would be of no help. I might even make matters worse, if I happened to displease Condé. So why would she keep me at her side? At first, I wanted to ask her. Then I realized that she was unlikely to communicate her reasons right now. She would fill me in as she saw fit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go. It seems Désirée is very popular around the palace after all. This will definitely not be the last visitor to her bedroom, but the sweetest to be sure. Historical Armand was a very cute little boy, definitely the cutest Condé of his generation. ;)


	9. Distemper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Lemay and Désirée are about to face her uncle. And they are not the only ones...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this took a while. But now the plot thickens and a little thunderstorm is on the rise. I hope you enjoy the continuation!

IX. Distemper

Distemper ( _Noun_ )

An angry and disagreeable mood; ill humour.

 

Once the Musketeers had left, I returned to tidying up my equipment. The bowl with the happily sated leech still sat on the table where Aramis had left it. When I was about to release the leech into its jar, Mademoiselle beckoned for me to show it to her. She surprised me. I could only assume that she had decided to face her needless fear. So I did her the favour and held out the bowl to her.

With an apprehensive look, she watched the small animal creep about sluggishly in its vessel. Her lip curled with distaste, despite all efforts to suppress the sentiment. "May I?" Before I knew it, she touched the leech with a tentative finger. As her fingertip brushed along its sleek, black backside, she shivered. "Oh, you demonic little beast."  
  
"Those are harsh words for such a useful creature," I responded. "If you do not mind, I would like to return it to the water now. Leeches do not fare well if they are kept on the dry for too long."  
  
The thought made her smile wistfully. "About as well as I, when I stay cooped up in bed for days..."  
  
It was hard for me to tell whether she was jesting or complaining. So I gently remind her of the necessity to stay put. "Rest is the only sensible thing to do in your condition, Mademoiselle. Your body needs time to recuperate."  
  
"Of course, Monsieur. I know better than to contradict you," she groaned. "Yet there is a minor problem: Once Armand realizes that I cannot get away, he will beleaguer me to his heart's content." The smile on her face brightened, shedding some of its sombre quality.  
  
"Your cousin is a sweet young boy," I replied while I let the leech slide back into the water where it happily swam in large circles. We both knew it would be impossible to refuse her little cousin entrance to her bedroom.  
  
At that she sighed. Obviously, the notion troubled her. "Yes, but his health is so very frail. Physicians make him uneasy. And he has often escaped death by a hair's breadth."  
  
Now that she said it, I recalled some things. The boy prince's small, bony stature and the slight hunch of his back had been hard to miss. They told me that he had been failing to thrive as he should have. "He must have a guardian angel," I observed. For some reason, I found myself sitting back down in the chair next to her bed. It felt rude to walk about while she addressed such serious things.  
  
Mademoiselle nodded. She moved about the bed uneasily. Either my words had made her uncomfortable, or she was in pain. However, her spell of discomfort passed as quickly as it had arrived.  
I reflected on what she had just said about her cousin's bad experiences. At the same time, I wondered what she thought of my attendance to her. "It seems, Mademoiselle, that your own opinions on physicians are no less pessimistic," I blurted out, instantly regretting it.  
  
"You think?" Bemused, my patient studied me. "I am sorry if this is your impression. In fact, my only aversion is against being weak and needy..."  
  
"It is all right to be weak every now and then, Mademoiselle," I contested kindly. "It is my duty to offer help in these moments. Relying on it is no cause for shame."  
  
She met my remark with a wry stare. "I feel no shame," she corrected me. There was more she wanted to tell me, but suddenly, she paused to listen to a distant sound. "He is coming," she muttered; sounding anything but pleased. "Stand up and stay where you are. And do not speak a word, unless spoken to."  
_  
He_ was most definitely her lord uncle. But the need to warn me seemed thoroughly redundant. By now, I had been at court long enough to know how to behave around the high nobility. A moment later, though, I realized why she had chosen to do it: When the prince marched into his niece's bedroom with brisk steps, his air of cool aloofness made clear that he would have nobody engage him, be it her or me.

**

At least one thing had not turned out to be an utter catastrophe today. Athos reined in his horse so D'Artagnan could catch up with him. Their errand in Rouen had gone smoothly. The documents in their care had reached the magistrate. Now they were free to go. If they rode speedily, stopping midway for the night, they would be in Paris by early morning. It was just as well. Athos hoped to see Désirée as soon as possible. During the execution of his duties, he had been forced to postpone any thought of his friend. But not anymore...  
  
"You look worried," D'Artagnan observed as he halted his mount beside him.  
  
"I am not," Athos replied defensively. He was not in the mood for a discussion of his feelings.  
  
His young comrade merely groaned. "Oh, come on. You cannot tell me that you are not worried about her."  
  
"Of course I am concerned about Désirée's well-being. Yet my concern is not the same as worry," Athos stated. It was true. He was always concerned about his lady friend. It appeared as though she continuously stumbled into new dangers if they did not look after her.  
  
"There you are then," D'Artagnan coaxed his stallion into a canter. "I hope she lives through this."  
  
"She will," Athos was surer about it than in the morning. The more he had recapitulated the accident before his mind's eye, the less likely had her death appeared.  
  
For some reason, D'Artagnan was frowning now. "If she does, I think she will get in trouble with the king. You should have seen him after the incident. He was very worked up. And he was blaming her, for everything..."  
  
Athos's head whipped around. This was bad news. Why had D’Artagnan not told him before? They could have stepped in before matters escalated. Since Rochefort’s return to France, they had done so with alarming frequency. And the king’s sudden change of heart made no sense at all. So far, his majesty had held Désirée in the highest regard. She had been a royal favourite, getting away with almost everything. That he should be upset with her over a lunatic's attack seemed almost ridiculous. There was only one explanation for this, one that had already crossed his mind. "This sounds like Rochefort's doing."  
  
D'Artagnan nodded. "He is becoming more and more powerful. We have to do something to protect Désirée. What if the bullets were never meant for the king at all?"  
  
He had put Athos's exact thoughts into words. Although, as far as the extended royal family was concerned, there was little they could do. "I will try and talk to her uncle."  
  
"Condé?" D'Artagnan slowed down his horse. Otherwise sudden shock had knocked him off the saddle. He knitted up his brows, wholly unconvinced. "Would he not laugh at our concerns?"  
  
"The prince has no humour. Especially not when the safety of his own family is concerned." He was their sole chance. Only if Condé saw sense could they even consider to act. If they went and investigated the shooting without his knowledge, the prince would have every reason to blame his niece as well, for the clandestine actions of her friends.  
  
Next to him, D'Artagnan grumbled. But the young man appeared to understand. He was far too clever not to. "Well, fingers crossed that you catch Monseigneur in a fair mood."  
  
There was absolutely no hope for that. The only things lifting his highness's spirits nowadays were the hunt and the theatre. Thus Athos had to brace himself for Monseigneur's irritable temper. In comparison, Désirée's occasional outbursts of moodiness were a mild summer breeze.


	10. Migraines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monsieur le Prince pays his niece a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with a longer scene this time. Please enjoy it while I work on the plot for the upcoming chapters. ;)

X. Migraines

 

Migraines ( _Noun_ )  
Recurrent throbbing headaches.

 

At once the prince slowed his approach, taking time to survey the scene before him. Without a single trace of emotion, he took a stance at the bottom of the bed. As his sky-blue eyes travelled between Mademoiselle and me, I scampered into a bow. His all-consuming presence alone was enough to make me feel horribly out of place. Even with his cousin the king, I had never felt this way before.

His niece, however, appeared to be much less awed. She contented herself with a simple nod of acknowledgement. I knew she felt unwell, but her obvious lack of effort bordered on irreverence. To be sure, it did not go unnoticed, yet her lord uncle pretended to overlook it completely.

"Are you aware of the trouble you have caused me today?" he inquired at last, with a sharp note of exasperation in his tone.

"No," Mademoiselle retorted calmly, "as your highness knows, I  have suffered an accident."

The prince acknowledged her evasion with a curt nod. She had stated the obvious in a most provocative way. I wondered if it was wise. "His majesty blames you for the embarrassed he has suffered at the procession," he stated firmly. His harsh glare made me shudder. "It has taken me some effort to dissuade him from punishment."

I saw the young woman shiver at the news ever so slightly. "Monseigneur, would you mind lowering your voice? I have a headache," she moaned, even though her uncle had been far from shouting. It was surely not the reply Condé wanted to hear. Yet it held the admission I had tried to get out of her all along. It was strange how she brought up her headaches only now, as if she hoped to incite his compassion.

Against my expectations, she received it. "Forgive me," he sighed. When he engaged her again, he tried to show some more gentleness. "I cannot tell what is amiss with our cousin. Of course, it is ridiculous for him to incriminate you."

Mademoiselle tried to smile at him in gratitude. It came out as a pained grimace. "Well, I might have an idea about that," she stated. "Bad influence."

Grudgingly her uncle confirmed the notion. "You may be right. Yet this matter is none of your concern."

"Naturally not," Mademoiselle nodded. "At least as long as I am not in the line of fire. And I trust you remained in Paris because the sheer possibly worries you?"

Her observation changed his mien, and not for the better. A shadow of irritation flitted across his features, making it obvious that she had hit a nerve. "No. Why should I be worried?"

"Because even the first prince of the blood is but a man?" she retorted. "To be frank, I am merely surprised to find you here today."

Condé glared at her for a long moment. He appeared unused to finding his authority questioned so directly. Eventually, he relented to his niece's scrutiny. "If you must know, I had state business to attend to. Yet I shall not stay. Paris is not safe at present."

"Politically speaking?" she creased her brows.

"Generally speaking," her uncle replied with the trace of a sigh.

Mademoiselle seemed to find her uncle's snappishness amusing. "And that applies to our entire family? Are we not well used to the many dangers lurking here?"

"No, naturally it only applies to Mademoiselle my niece," the prince responded in a tone dripping with irony. "Apparently one cannot leave you to your own devices, for you will put yourself into a detrimental condition almost at once."

With that he turned to me, quite unexpectedly. He knew who I was from court, so he addressed me without wanting an introduction. "It is worse than it looks, is it not?" 

His enquiry felt like a trick question. No matter how I responded, one party would be upset. As her closest male relative, the prince was entitled to know about Mademoiselle's condition. It was unwise to incur his wrath. Yet I was not too keen on being at the receiving end of my patient's unpredictable fury when I disclosed too much, either. With a probing glance into her direction, I tried to walk the path of diplomacy. "Your highness will be glad to hear that matters are not as bad as they could be: Her grace has been very lucky. Some of her injuries could have taken a turn for the worse without timely intervention. Now she should make a full recovery, given that her fever breaks and she is provided with sufficient rest."

"That is a comfort," the prince stated. "But, if there is so little to worry about, then why are there Musketeers downstairs?" he questioned sharply, and clearly not of me.

"Monseigneur can always ask them to leave," Mademoiselle offered, instead of giving him any explanations. 

It was a dare, and her uncle knew that very well. "I shall not, since you are unbearable when you are sulking. Yet I will ask you to behave yourself."

At that, his niece groaned with annoyance. "Pray, uncle, when have I ever misbehaved in the company of Musketeers?"

"You have not," the prince admitted, "yet, in your current state, your mind may be addled enough to try."

Unseen by him, Mademoiselle clenched her fist. "Thank you for your t," she muttered. "I had no idea Monseigneur thought so lowly of me."

"I do not, Désirée, and you know it," he responded with unmistakable exasperation. "Although we should end our conversation now. Otherwise you might say something you will regret."

The notion made her chuckle dryly, struggling to look oblivious of the pain it caused her. "One could think you are tempting me, Monseigneur. Thank you for the visit though."

"How could I not look in on my niece when she is unwell?" Condé said. The question was purely rhetorical, spoken plainly, without compassion. In an instant, he left, as suddenly as he had arrived.

He was not even out the door when Mademoiselle relaxed visibly. For the first time in hours, she looked ready to fall asleep. Now that the prince had departed, it felt as though a tempest had passed over her, leaving her unscathed. Then any hope that my patient would repose now was utterly shattered:

"That went well," she murmured. In her gaze, I spied a trace of gratitude. Obviously, she was content with my performance.

"I daresay his highness seemed to be in a pleasant mood," I observed. But I was wrong.

"Ha! What you have just witnessed was on the fine line between annoyance and anger."

This bewildered me. Mademoiselle detected my sentiment and explained. "My uncle makes a point not to lose his temper with me; unless he is in a right fury. He knows better than to upset his niece." She smirked at me and I understood: The young woman had a mind of her own. I had already gotten a taste of what it was like to go against it.

"Perhaps he was only mindful of your health?" I offered. The remark was a feeble attempt to remind my patient of her need to rest. "His highness appears to be a man of sound common sense."

Another sudden laugh from her told me that she disagreed yet again. "Since when do nearly starting a war or going to prison to defend one's pride account for common sense?" Mademoiselle whispered.

"It..." I faltered. Of course, I had heard the tales that inspired her words. For sure, her uncle's fierce reputation at court did not come from nothing. "But these things occurred more than a decade ago. At least from what I have heard..."

For an unknown reason, the young woman gave me an odd look. It was thoughtful and startled at the same time. "What else have you heard, Monsieur?" she questioned with some caution.

I knew what she wanted to find out. And I humoured her. "That your uncle the prince might not be his father's son." It was a bad rumour, and wholly untrue. One had to be blind not to see that Condé was his father's likeness.

"He did not even know his father... " she sighed. More loudly, she added, "And, pray, what have you heard about me?"

"Nothing, Mademoiselle," I responded truthfully. Her choosing this moment to place the question felt very peculiar. "Before today, I was not even aware the Prince de Condé had a niece. Or that the Princess of Orange had a daughter, for that matter..." At once I broke off. Now her timing made sense. There was no further need to clarify: She was an ennobled illegitimate. Notably, her mother had not given her late husband any children. So there was no better explanation. "If you will permit me the question, Mademoiselle," I probed, surprising myself with my unusual curiousity. Yet she made no objections. "Your father was not highborn, was he?"

"Does it matter?" she inquired. "He was of gentile birth. Albeit, he followed the call to priesthood. So I grew up at a Jesuit mission in China."

Seconds before it was too late, I stopped myself from gawping at her. Our conversation had just taken an unexpected turn. Countless questions raced through my head, but most felt rude. She had shared these things out of her own free will. Asking how her father had managed to keep her with him while eloping excommunication was no way to reward her openness. I had to choose a different subject.

"Has he taught you everything you know?" I probed, stuck between a statement and a question.

"Most of it." Mademoiselle winced, but not from my inquiry. It was her pain. "Some of the other Fathers taught me as well. And there were books... of course."

Her tale was fascinating. Yet I had to remember it was not the main reason for my presence here. We had to end our interview now. Still baffled, I stood and helped my patient to settle into a more comfortable position. "You must have read a great deal, Mademoiselle," I finally stated, still engulfed in wonder.

"Probably less than you, Monsieur," she replied with a modest half-smile. "I have merely read Hippocrates, Galen, Paracelsus and Avicenna. And I have leafed through the writings of some Chinese sages. The medicine they teach is vastly different from your notions," she chuckled at that. "I should translate some of it for you..." She broke off now, failing to ban the pain-striken expression from her pale face once more.

"Mademoiselle, forgive my candour, but you must rest now." With a concerned frown, I touched her forehead. To my astonishment, the fever had lessened. "And you should finally consider a remedy to ease your pain."

She merely sighed at my repeated insistence. "There is no need... just hold my hand for a bit."

Perplexed, I did what she wanted and reached for her hand. It was like ice against my skin. At once I felt it wriggle in my grip. A moment later her other hand guided my fingers towards the soft flesh beneath her wrist. "There, that's better," she muttered.

"What are you doing, Mademoiselle?" I questioned, frowning with confusion.

She simply shrugged, murmuring, "Pressure points; it helps."

This very instant, the door opened and the Musketeers sneaked back inside. They seemed ready to leave; and it was for the best. Perhaps their departure would finally persuade my patient to sleep.

Upon seeing our hands entangled as they were, Porthos beheld his friend with half-closed eyes. "Désirée, have you been flirting with the poor doctor?" he inquired with humourous disapproval.

"Be quiet," she retorted, rolling her eyes. "You are only jealous..."

"Oh, I do not think he is," Aramis chimed in. "We are, however, rather disappointed with you. Evangeline recalled that you did not eat your breakfast today. And, after long hours without food, it is little wonder you are feeling even more poorly now."

Mademoiselle groaned. "That little traitor," she grumbled. It was clear that she recalled as much. "Will you tell Athos?" She added, with a minute note of dread.

"We will not, as long as you try to eat a little bit later," Aramis quipped.

"That is blackmail, but fair enough," his friend consented reluctantly. Her eyelids were growing heavy now. They nearly flickered shut as she spoke. At long last, she looked ready to fall asleep. "If you could ask him to come and see me, though..."

"Of course," her Musketeer friend agreed readily.

With a grateful nod, she gazed at me again. Her eyes were glassy from exhaustion. "What about you, Monsieur?"

"I shall look in on you tomorrow, too, Mademoiselle," I said, carefully freeing my hand. As I ran it over the sheets absent-mindedly, she stirred.

Before I knew it, she had gathered all her remaining strength and roused herself to sit. Seconds later, she enclosed me in a tight hug. "Thank you, for everything," she whispered, her warm breath nipping at my ear. "But do not bring those damned leeches again."

"I am very sorry, Mademoiselle, but I cannot promise that," I admitted quietly.

"Such a pity," she groaned. I felt her hand pat my hair, obviously intent on smoothing it down. Then, at once, she passed out in my arms. Gingerly I eased her back into bed. All this time, an inexplicable pang of relief kept me company. As I had tucked her in under the blankets, Porthos grinned at me.

"She likes you," he observed. "Only few people get to steal the hugs meant for me."

"Either that, or Désirée has finally tired of you," Aramis added rather unhelpfully.

"Nonsense," Porthos fired back. In passing, he breathed a fleeting kiss on the young woman's forehead. The way he beheld her reminded me of the concern her uncle had voiced about her consorting with the Musketeers.

To me, this concern felt utterly ridiculous. Extraneous as she had appeared at first, Désirée de Bourbon was a strong, intelligent young woman with a deep devotion to her friends. It was nobody's place to judge her by appearances.

 


	11. Sylphs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance is worried about Désirée and Lemay has some questions to ask her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a brief interlude I wrote for the first draft of the story. I felt Constance should get some screen time. At this point Lemay and her only know each other fleetingly. Meanwhile I am still working on the continuation of the story. I hope you enjoy this chapter! It is also a sort of summary of Désirée's backstory. :)

XI. Sylphs

Sylphs ( _Noun_ ).

Mythological beings of the air, often female. First mentioned in the alchemical writings of Paracelsus.

 

Constance paced the upstairs hall. She had been at it for over an hour now: walking back and forth and back again. The queen had sent her, to inquire about Désirée. But Doctor Lemay had not yet returned. It had to be a bad sign.

After what felt like another eternity, the physician appeared at the top of the stairs. He had not yet spotted her. Constance took a moment to study him. From all she could tell, he looked tired, but not completely exhausted. He looked clean, too. In her head she had imagined to find blood spatters tinting his clothes. When Désirée had fallen, they had not known whether she had been shot. If one of the musket balls had hit her, she might have bled to death. And then he would be...

"Is everything alright? You look rather troubled, Madame."

Constance flinched. So Lemay had seen her now. "No," she blushed a little as she realized the impression she had just created. The last thing this poor man needed tonight was another emergency. He had had his fair share of those for one day. "I've only come to inquire about Mademoiselle de Bourbon. Her majesty and I have been worried after the accident."

Lemay looked surprised. "Do not worry too much. Mademoiselle has been lucky. Yet her recovery will take time." He paused, probably wondering why she cared. "Do you know each other well?"

"We do know each other, yes", she chewed on her lower lip, contemplating her next words. Their relationship was a strange as it was complicated. "Even more than fleetingly. But I think we better not discuss this topic in the hallway."

The doctor appeared to agree. They both knew that the palace walls had ears. And, ever since Rochefort had begun to spin his web, one wrong word could destroy a life, if not end it. Without much hesitation, the physician nodded. He passed the chest with his equipment to her. "Please." Juggling with the big leech jar tucked under his arm, he opened the door and invited her into his rooms.

**

As Madame Bonacieux had entered my quarters, her demeanour relaxed more than a bit. With care, she put the chest on the table and turned to look at me. "Since you asked, doctor: I have known Désirée since she first arrived in Paris. D'Artagnan took her to me since she was in bad need of decent clothin. None of us knew she was highborn then." She sighed. "Since then, we are friends, of sorts. Even though she was quite a piece of work back when we first met..."

The remark made me frown. It was as though she knew exactly what I had just experienced. "Yet, at second glance, Mademoiselle de Bourbon is a quite amicable young woman."

"I am glad to hear you say so," she observed, not without surprise. "She can be hard to take when she is unwell."

"That would apply to most of my patients," I retorted as my hand grazed the spines of the leather-bound volumes on my shelf. There was a certain book I wanted to find. "Yet I take it that you speak from experience?"

Shyly, Constance nodded. "I have looked after her once, too. It was not the easiest task. She would not touch her food until Athos talked some sense into her. And getting her to rest was a real pain."

This sounded very familiar. I had a hard time trying to bite back a knowing smile. "So my hopes that Mademoiselle would rest have indeed been rather optimistic..."

"One could say that," she regarded me with a little smile that felt strangely apologetic. "But perhaps she will listen to you. I mean, she listens to the Musketeers, too. Most of the time..."

Absently I furrowed my brow as I located my copy of Paracelsus on the shelf and pulled it out of the bookcase. "Their relationship to Mademoiselle seems special." I offered as I carried the heavy tome towards the table by the window. Perhaps Constance was willing to fill in some of the many gaps in my knowledge. I knew now that Mademoiselle befriended them, yet this could not be all.

"It is," she allowed. "She was lucky the Musketeers picked her up. Otherwise she might well be dead now."

Her directness surprised me. Yet I also valued it. "I understand that she has lead a somewhat eventful life so far."

Obviously, my comment was a crass understatement, since she gave me another unreadable look. "There has been a conspiracy on her life. Had Captain Treville not placed her under his protection, nobody would have cared to resolve it."

"I had no idea," I admitted, feeling my face fall with bemusement.

"Most people do not. And it is better that way," she observed. She was right, of course.

Not knowing how to respond, I leafed through Paracelsus, on the hunt for a certain passage. Naturally, Madame Bonacieux noticed the sudden shift in my attention. "What are you reading?" She peered over my shoulder, frowning at some of the illustrations. "This looks like a book of fairy stories." It was a coarse, but apt description. She had a talent for those.

"It can be," I remarked. "Paracelsus did not always distinguish fact from fiction. Yet Mademoiselle reminded me that he was far less fictional than I wanted to admit."

"I hope she has not been rude to you," Constance groaned.

"Not particularly. But we discussed the merits of leeching. She argumented with Paracelsus, and surprisingly well. It made me want to reread his exact views on the matter."

My reply left her dumbfounded for a moment. "She is a smart young lady. I am glad she met someone who appreciates it."

"Sometimes I do indeed listen to my patients, Madame." It was an interesting notion. And a gentle reminder for me to keep up this practice. Sometimes I was too engrossed in my work to remember. By now I had found the right page. I bookmarked it with one of the ribbons and closed the book. "But I am keeping you from your duties."

Dismissively, Constance shook her curly head. "You are not, doctor. I am keeping you. And I did not mean to barge in on you with all these nosy questions about Désirée's well-being."

"On the contrary," I contested. "It was I who was being overly inquisitive. You should know that it is not something I usually do."

"Don't worry about it," she replied reassuringly. "It is a special talent of hers to leave everyone full of questions. And they find themselves running after the answers."

Again, she had grasped the trouble by its root. I could not avoid sighing. "Then I must thank you for providing at least some of them."

At that, she grinned a little. "Glad to be of help, doctor. Maybe I can persuade the queen to send Désirée some good wishes, so I get a pretext to look in on her as well."

"Why not?" I returned the smile. "Yet I hope Mademoiselle will not use it as an excuse to interrupt her bed rest."

"She would use every excuse, until Athos threatens to stop their fencing lessons," she rolled her eyes just a little, in a humorous way. Then she just nodded and took her leave of me. Her last comment, however, left me puzzled. Why would a highborn lady take pleasure in fencing?

Although, the more I learned about Mademoiselle de Bourbon, the less did her many peculiar interests bewilder me. I solely prayed that she would abstain from the more dangerous ones during her recovery.

Somewhat anxious and unsure about the matter, I decided to return my thoughts to the book upon the table. At least Mademoiselle's inclinations had successfully rekindled my interest in Paracelsus. The next time she brought him up in conversation, I wanted to be prepared. So I was hopeful that no further disturbances emerged and I could spend the rest of the evening studying his treatises.


End file.
